


The Brevity of Love

by AnontheNullifier



Category: Marvel Cinematic Universe, The Avengers (Marvel Movies), The Avengers (Marvel) - All Media Types
Genre: Drabbles, F/M, Fluff, No Plot/Plotless, Occasionally steamy, bounces around in the timeline of their relationship, so nonlinear
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-06-15
Updated: 2018-08-08
Packaged: 2018-11-13 16:46:42
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 10
Words: 10,535
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11189247
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/AnontheNullifier/pseuds/AnontheNullifier
Summary: Small moments shared between Wanda and Vision.





	1. Molecular Principles

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I've been doing some one-shots for tumblr and started to feel weird about not posting them here. So I'll update them in both places. Everything in here will be 2 pages or less (I know, how the hell can I do that?! Answer, it is really really hard). There's no overarching plot here and the drabbles will skip around throughout their relationship.
> 
> Some of these will be cut scenes from other works, which I'll note, just in case anyone is curious. 
> 
> If you ever have any requests, let me know.
> 
> Hope you enjoy!

“You know I’d much prefer you drop the disguise.”

The motion of his lips curling up, their faces close enough that she can feel the brush of his mouth and the rush of hot air between his lips, causes her to grin as well, enraptured by the man in front of her, even with the blonde hair. “You can control that.” 

Wanda pauses, hand coming to rest on his chest as she gently nudges him, separating their bodies enough that she can meet his eyes. “Come again?”

“I believe you may be able to control my appearance because-” his finger lightly taps the center of his brow, a bashful, painfully adorable uneasy grin causing his response to waver slightly, his thoughts forming a vortex of uncertainty as he organizes the words. “Because of what happened at the compound,” their eyes meet again, his with a touch of guilt at invoking the memory, a tenuous agreement having been made when he first found her in Wakanda that their actions from before had been dealt with and swept away, that it was not necessary to revisit the pain for which they had already apologized. “Because of,” his finger points to her and then back up to the where the stone rests under his pale skin, the connection clear, “I believe, as with my density, you may be able to control my molecular manipulation.”

Wanda tries to be eloquent, to find words that convey her curiosity and hesitation but instead she just says, “Huh,” thoughts racing at the various implications and an uncomfortably strong curiosity coursing through her at whether or not it would work. There is also a brief, heated image of morphing the sweater away as well, the itch to trace her hands along his skin becoming close to unbearable the more they touch, but she shoves it aside, sure to bring it up later if this is successful. “Do you,” she hesitates, removing her hand from his chest to point up at his forehead, unsure if, even with his suggestion, she is asking too much given their history, “mind if I, um?”

“Of course,” the gentle smile on his face and peck of his lips reassures her, “I trust you, Wanda, fully.” 

Calmly she raises her hand to hover just over the Mindstone, red seeping out of her skin and dancing between her fingers as she moves them in a rhythmic, wave-like pattern, the red tendrils tapping against his forehead. Her eyelids flutter shut, allowing her mind total control of her senses as she feels out his powers, scarlet energy meeting gold when his mind guides her in the correct direction. As her powers continue to dance with the Mindstone, she forms a mental image of his natural body, crimson skin and the branching, interlocking network of vibranium she finds so tantalizing, and slowly she dissolves away his disguise. Her eyes open, a beaming smile on her face at her handiwork. “That’s much better.”

A smirk forms on his lips and travels up to gleam in the swirling gears of his eyes as he wraps an arm around her, pulling her closer. With just one whispered sentence he causes her mind to crash and sets her entire body on fire, “My clothing follows the same principle.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This drabble was originally the beginning of Chapter 2 of Facade of Normalcy. Like two days after I posted the first chapter, video showed that Wanda was doing hand wavy things to the Mindstone in the hotel room so I wanted to incorporate it in to the story. But this whole exchange just didn't fit with that story flow and threw off everything, so I had to scrap it.
> 
> Hope you enjoyed!


	2. A Need for Quiet

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A busy time at the compound forces Vision to seek out quiet in an unusual place.

Thus far Wanda has wandered the compound for about twenty minutes, walking through the common room, kitchen, library, bedroom wing, roof, the training room, the hangar, the quinjet, and now she is peeking into the darkness of the labs. She is about to give up hope when she notices a sliver of light coming from underneath the storage room door in Dr. Cho’s lab. Silently she opens the door, given the ever present cloud of stress hanging over the compound as of late Wanda determines it best to move quietly around the tables. Once she reaches the storage room she raises her hand and lightly taps on the door. “Vision?” 

She waits, leaning her shoulder against the cold metal wall, practicing forming orbs of scarlet in between her hands until movement can be heard on the other side. The door opens with barely a sound, just the sweep of air and a quick, surprised breath, followed by a pair of bright, embarrassed blue eyes peeking out at her. “Hello, Wanda.” 

“Hey, fancy meeting you here.” Confusion overtakes his face, irises rotating counterclockwise as his eyebrows lower, puckering the skin around the Mind Stone, and Wanda can’t stop herself from laughing at the sheer innocence of it all. “Hurricane Tony a bit too much?” For eight consecutive days Tony has visited the compound, his whirlwind of manic energy throwing off the delicate balance they’ve slowly built living as a team. For Wanda it has only been a slight annoyance, her and Tony never actually speaking to each other. But for Vision, well, he has been the only teammate polite enough to always join Tony, quickly picking up on the unspoken social responsibility to entertain visiting family.

Eventually he steps out from behind the door, fingers unable to stop flipping the pages of the book in his hand, his words deliberately chosen and yet slightly rushed as he attempts to explain his choice of reading nook. “My mind is having difficulty processing information, it took me 10 milliseconds longer than usual to respond to the sound of your knock. Some place quiet and free of distractions was extraordinarily tempting.” 

The guilt in his voice grips at her heart and Wanda finds herself stepping closer to him and reaching out to place her fingers lightly on his forearm. “You know that's normal, right?” If the guilt wasn't enough, the surprise now flickering in his eyes flips her stomach over and constricts her heart more. “Some people need alone time to function, otherwise they can get overwhelmed or grumpy or irritated. Honestly, I’m surprised it took you this long to hide.”

Vision remains silent as he considers her words, face ever so slightly softening the longer he thinks. “I have felt overwhelmed, but I do not believe the others apply.”

“Not sure the twelve dummies you destroyed in training today would agree.” 

“Fair point.”

Wanda gives his arm a reassuring squeeze, “You can always come to my room to read, if you want. Tony’s never stepped foot in there and never will.”

Contemplation flicks across his face, eyes briefly glancing at the closet before falling on her, appreciative smile just barely registering on his lips. “I would like that.”

Wanda grins up at him, unsure what to do about the flutter in her chest at his acquiescence, so, as usual, she pushes it down to deal with later, broadening her grin as she loops her arm through his. “Me too.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Let's see, this one started as the beginning for the chapter from Celestial Bodies where they are going to the Charity Ball. Vision was originally reading the How to be Gentleman book, but like with the last chapter, this one just bogged down the story. It has been sitting untouched for some time and so I edited away all reference to the chapter it originally went with and made it a one shot :)
> 
> Hope you enjoyed!


	3. A Galactic Interruption

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Unexpected guests interrupt alone time.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This one's steamy. Hope you enjoy!

Fingers skim along her thighs, scrunching the fabric of her dress as his hands move up, causing a moan to pass from her mouth to his. Vision smiles mid-kiss and it undoes her restraint even more as Wanda wraps her arms around his neck and tightens the grip of her legs straddling his lap. They have been given The Talk numerous times about using the common space for certain activities, but for some reason the danger of it is exhilarating. So Wanda has no idea what movie is on in the background (and frankly doesn't care), mind focused instead on the purposeful incremental increase in the temperature of his lips as he peppers her neck and shoulders, the heat spreading in erratic pathways throughout their bodies, searing any and all logic from their minds. 

As Vision moves his hands along her body, right hand rising to trace the lace edge of her bra as his left travels down to teasingly flick at the band of her underwear, Wanda finds that she is frustrated. There is a bothersome itch in her mind, a presence nearby that does not sync to any of the preset minds she keeps track of when they sully the couch, and it means she cannot fully give in to the feel of his hands on her body and his lips on her mouth. Vision pauses briefly in his worship of her, blue eyes unfocused and spinning rapidly, voice developing a slight rasp. “Are you okay?”

“I don't know.” His hands grip her waist, indicating that he is about to lift her off of him to check on their surroundings, but she wraps him in her powers, holding him still. “It's probably nothing.” Wanda traces a finger along the lines of his face, strands of scarlet snaking up to the Mindstone, heat enveloping her as his eyes flutter shut and a ragged sigh escapes his usually stoic mouth. With a tap of her finger the Mindstone turns red and his clothes begin to dissolve.

That's when the music reaches them.

“Baby, please, go all the way  
It feels so right (feels so right)  
Being with you here tonight  
Please, go all the way  
Just hold me close (hold me close)  
Don't ever let me go*”

Wanda pulls back, her eyes meeting his as they widen in confusion. And then bright lights pour in through the windows, bathing the room in white, an outline of a ship coming into view, and a smarmy voice muffled slightly by the windows. “Please, don't stop on our behalf, it was just getting to the good part.” 

They hurriedly break apart, Wanda scrambling to stand, hands flattening the creases in her dress, and Vision (much to her jealousy) slowly rising with his usual ease and grace, clothes reappearing in a well-practiced, casual manner meant to mask the tiny spur of embarrassment in his mind. 

Wanda’s hand finds his as they hesitantly walk towards the window and peer into the lights.

“Wanda, is that a raccoon?”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> *Song is “Go All The Way” by the Raspberries.
> 
> This one has been sitting in my Scarlet Vision document for ages, like 7ish months? I've been trying to work it in to other stories but never found one that it quite fit with or that I wanted to write beyond this scene.
> 
> Hope you enjoyed!


	4. A Misunderstanding

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Vision plans an event without understanding the implications

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Fine, it took me 4 chapters to break my length promise. I tried, I really did. 
> 
> Hope you enjoy!

Sam stares at the frighteningly earnest face of Vision, an innocent anticipation in his unblinking eye contact that makes the question about fifty times more unsettling. “Um…”

“Please be assured,” Vision’s hands raise, swooping up and to the side as he talks, becoming a real pro at utilizing body language while talking, something Sam should be proud of but can’t bring himself to care about at the moment, instead hanging on whatever comes next, “it is no different than our usual Friday activities.”

Ah, and there it is, confirmation that someone put him up to this, at least that’s what Sam hopes. This puts him on more solid ground, shoulders relaxing as he shines a megawatt smile at the man in front of him. “You asked everyone else about it yet?”

“You were the closest in proximity when I determined to initiate a bonding experience.”

Sam’s smile broadens as he places a congenial hand on the man’s shoulder, “Good. You should probably talk to Nat next, she’s always super busy you know.”  The understanding and obedient nod from Vision cements his plan. “Also, ask Wanda last.”

“I did not realize there should be an order.”

A nonchalant shrug slides the comment away, suggesting it’s something that everyone should already know, which means Vision won’t inquire further, “Listen man, as the social organizer, I promise, that’s the best order.”

Vision gives him one more serious nod and phases away. Immediately Sam pulls out his phone, fingers flying across the screen as he tries his best to get the message out before Vision finds her.

_Sam: V is about to ask you a question. Play along and then hit me up._

_Natasha: Roger that._

Ten minutes pass before his phone buzzes again, kickstarting his body with a jolt as his hands eagerly reach for the device.

_Nat: I thought we agreed no more pranking Vision, he doesn’t know better._

_Sam: Hey, mandroid came up with it himself, I’m just being opportunistic._

The ellipsis of Natasha formulating her response comes and goes, the three dots popping up and then disappearing until they finally stay.

_Nat: We betting on the outcome?_

_Sam: Does Steve wear star spangled boxers?_

_Nat: $30 Rhodes says yes and then rushes to me._

_Sam: I’ll take it, but he’s going to talk to me, not you._

_Nat: Hope you’re ready to go broke._

Sam shoves the phone in his pocket, grabs a water bottle and begins wandering the common room, investigating each spot to determine where he can be most visible for when Rhodes comes walking into the room, face shell-shocked and voice cracking slightly.  Sure enough, footfalls echo down the hall, slow and plodding, a hesitation and horror clear in the “What just happened?” that seems to be his mantra for the day. ‘

“Hey man.”

Rhodes stops and stares at Sam, mouth agape and eyes unfocused as he forms his question. “Has Vision asked you…”

“Yep.”

“Do you think he’s serious?”

An amused smile forms on Sam’s lips as he shakes his head, “No way he has any idea what it means.”

A hesitant shrug goes along with Rhodes’ comment, “Maybe it's his thing.” His tone develops a mildly defensive air at Sam’s eye roll. “What? He's odd and we're a freakishly attractive group, can't fault the guy.”

“Don't go lumping yourself in with my sex appeal,” Sam wags a finger towards the man in mock anger. “But seriously, no way he knows.”

“Let’s hope.”

Rhodes walks into the kitchen, still shaking his head, and Sam takes this as his opportunity to brag, turning to snap a picture of the confused and slightly dejected Rhodes and sending it to Natasha.

_Sam: I’ll take your $$$._

_Nat: I feel betrayed._

He starts to type a reply but stops as the ellipsis pops up.

_Nat: 50 bucks Steve is just as clueless._

_Sam: No way, we’ve taught him better than that._

_Nat: You’re cute Sam, stupid, but cute. What about Wanda?_

_Sam: $70 she explains it to him, all sweet and gentle, before they get here._

_Nat: Oh no, she’s joining him._ _$150 she's all moon-eyed and giggly until she sees us._

Sam contemplates both options, he rarely wins against Nat, but he already bagged thirty bucks and he feels like he has a better handle on the social side of team dynamics.

_Sam: $150 it is. Can’t wait to be rich._

 

That night Sam lounges on the couch, feet up on the table, arms out along the back cushion, and grins. “So are we just going to sit here in terrified silence?”

The scoff to his side belongs to Natasha, her legs crossed and a magazine in her hands, “I’d say anticipation of the upcoming shit show of embarrassment more so than terrified.”

“Speak for yourself,” Rhodes leans forward, elbows pressed into his knees as he glances back towards the dark hallway, “I wasn’t going to come but you two insisted.”

Lonely footfalls resound in the metal hallway, Steve's broad shoulders lifting as he smiles at the group. “Hey guys.” He's met with a chorus of _Hellos_ as he sits between Sam and Natasha on the couch, hands clapping against his knees. “Really great of Vision to plan this, I'm glad he's finally taking some social initiative.”

Sam groans a “Yeah, super proud,” as Natasha reaches behind Steve, mockingly rubbing her thumb against her index and middle fingers as she celebrates her first victory.

The conversation doesn't continue, the voices floating down the hall arresting their attention. The gentle, polite intonations of Vision telling a story are met with, Sam frowns, uncharacteristically giddy giggles. Wanda is never shy to entertain Vision, even at his most weird and inhuman moments, but she's not one for giggling. Natasha levels a pointed and victorious stare at him but Sam refuses to give in just yet. When they arrive in the room he raises an eyebrow at how Wanda’s hands are wrapped around Vision’s bicep, her body pressed firmly into his sweater clad chest as she looks up at him with a sickeningly sweet and hungry smile.

Natasha throws one more celebratory smile at him and loudly declares, “You two are late.”

That's when Wanda freezes, smile faltering as she takes in the rest of the team and suddenly her cheeks are beet red, eyes turning up to the man next to her with a plaintive and confused “Vizh?”

Vision simply smiles and pulls her the rest of the way to the common space. “Thank you all for coming.”

Even though it's juvenile, Sam can’t stop from tittering at the comment, confused lines forming around Vision’s gem as he looks between Sam and the intensifying blush on Wanda’s face.  She turns towards the synthetic man gently brushing his arm with her fingers as she prepares to sully his beautiful, endearing innocence. “Um Vizh?”

“Yes, Wanda?”

She glances back at the varying degrees of amusement on the their teammates’ faces, minus Steve who also has the blissful gleam of ignorance. “You do know what Netflix and Chill means, right?”

“Of course,” which is said with less confidence than usual, his ability to pick up on nonverbal cues getting more fine tuned each day, “it simply means to watch Netflix while,” he raises his fingers to utilize air quotes, “‘ _chilling_ ,’ or relaxing on the couch.”

Sam glances at Natasha and finds that even she appears close to breaking, lips held tightly shut as her face reddens slightly from the effort to remain neutral. Wanda sighs, an internal fight that manifests in her fingers waving with red when Sam releases another laugh. “Actually it, um,” only now does she seem to realize how the whole situation looks, a nervous, wide-eyed glance behind her as she tries to figure out if everyone else pieced together her intentions towards Vision. Sam gives a helpful wink and a thumbs up, mouthing _Get it girl_ , and she ducks her head to hide another blush before addressing Vision again. “It means to,” her fingers lift awkwardly as she air quotes, “ _watch_ Netflix but you actually, um fool around.”

Sam adds a gleefully helpful, “She means have sex!”

The confusion on Vision’s face fades slowly into intrigue, a brief, slightly heated questioning turn of his irises when he looks at Wanda that quickly dissolves into embarrassment as he takes in the smirks around the room. “I see.”

“Wait,” Steve studies the faces around him, “seriously?”  Natasha gives his shoulder a soft, reassuring pat.

Despite the clearly awkward atmosphere, Vision raises a finger, eyes squinting as his mind works through the revelations. “I am a bit confused by the concept.” Everyone sits in rapt anticipation as he formulates his inquiry, the paths of Vision’s mind a fascinating and often unpredictable journey. “The enjoyment of Netflix is to consume entertainment, yet the very foundation of the,” now that they’ve defined the phrase it takes on a proper air, the same one he uses for talking about scientific terms, “Netflix and Chill is to forgo watching the entertainment. How is it possible to keep track of plots when otherwise occupied?”

“Um well,” the concern in his voice is so genuine that its effect on Wanda  is immediate, her lips lifting at the edges as she brings a hand to rest on his forearm. Sam wonders if he can get some of his money back because Wanda did gently and sweetly explain it, just not before being thoroughly embarrassed. “You can always just watch something you've already seen or something that doesn’t require your attention.”

This seems to solve everything, Vision grinning in understanding as he adds, “Fascinating, so would it be fair to say we often HGTV and Chill?”

Natasha finally cracks, her sniggering mingling with Sam’s own laughter at the fact they all can feel the heat coming off of Wanda’s cheeks as she mumbles, “I think I’m going to call it a night,” and walks from the room.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Not going to lie, when I first heard Netflix and Chill way back when, I texted the S.O. and excitedly said there was finally a phrase for when we spend all day on the couch watching Netflix. When we learned the truth we both had the same question as Vision, like, how am I supposed to actually binge watch stuff? We'd have to go back and re-watch everything :-p
> 
> Hope you enjoyed!


	5. An Important Conversation

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Billy decides that he needs to talk to his parents.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I was asked on Tumblr what I thought Wanda and Vision's reaction would be to Billy coming out to them. Here is my take on it. Clearly this is a departure from the comics and is what could happen if the MCU decides to let them be a happy family.
> 
> Also, as a reminder, this collection has no coherent plot and doesn't follow a timeline. Just an assortment of drabbles.
> 
> Hope you enjoy!

Billy clenched the mug tighter, hoping to quell the slight tremble of his fingers as they all sat in silence. “Mom,” a quick glance towards his mom reveals a supportive curve to her mouth and a nod of go-ahead. As usual, dad is stoic, head cocked just a touch to the side with little emotion, “Dad. I um,” he’d practiced this with Tommy, called Teddy for added support, and finally decided to try out the meditative breathing his mom had been attempting to teach him lately, what with opening a vortex to another reality during a fight about homework the week before. “I wanted to tell you that, and I know it might be difficult to understand or, you know, adapt to, but I’m, um,” a slow, deep breath in adds just enough courage to finish his sentence, “I’m gay.”

For several agonizing weeks he’d contemplated their responses, gone through everything that might happen, what they’d say, whether scarlet would flare from his mother’s hands or his dad would phase away. What he did not expect was a shrug of his dad’s sweater-clad shoulders and a gentle, nonchalant, “Okay.” 

“Vizh…” Billy watches as his mom rolls her eyes, lips broadening into a full on smile as she teasingly shoves the shoulder of the man next to her before making eye contact with Billy. “What your father is trying to say is we love you and we’re happy for you.”

“Oh-I,” 

The tapping of crimson fingers on the table is deafening, silencing his response, which is fine because he’s not sure exactly how to act to convey the downpour of relief soaking into his soul. “Does this mean Teddy will come around more? We would very much like to have him over for dinner.”

“Wait, what?”

Another eye roll and the wind brushing against his shins is likely from a kick to his dad’s foot under the table. “You were supposed to let him tell us that part.”

“Oh,” his dad freezes, irises clicking quickly right and then left as a sheepish frown latches to the corners of his mouth, “My apologies.”

A chair scraping against the floor precedes the weight of arms wrapping around his shoulders, a mist of red encasing him in an extra layer of adoration as he feels lips press against his cheek. “Your dad is right though, bring him over for dinner.”

Billy manages a stuttered, “Yeah, I will, soon, promise,” before stepping away, a fluttering joy burgeoning up from his stomach, racing into his toes and fingertips where it settles into an ecstatic tingle. “I’m um, going to call him now.”

He stands up, flashes an eager smile at his parents, and backs out of the room. Just before he reaches the stairs there is the unmistakable chime of vibranium going through the grandfather clock in the entryway. “Billy.”

“Yeah dad?”

“Your mother and I, we know how some people in the world react to couples who are deemed non-normative.” He hesitates and there is a pain in his eyes, a deep, unquestionable understanding that Billy’s never really seen before, or at least, never picked up on. “Do not allow them to convince you that you do not deserve happiness.”

A tiny, tight-lipped slant forms on his dad’s mouth as he nods and begins to phase back through the clock. Billy reaches out to stop him, wraps his arms around his father, and makes a promise not only to his dad, but to himself and to Teddy, “I won’t.” 


	6. A Colorful Designation

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Vision decides Wanda's new hair requires some deep thought

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This was inspired both by the set pictures (and official pictures/trailer) that show Wanda's new hair color and a conversation with Anya about nicknames Vision might have for Wanda. 
> 
> Also, sorry for not being very good at keeping up with posting stuff here after it's up on Tumblr. 
> 
> Hope you enjoy!

He is staring at her again, which in itself is not alarming. They’d gone months with no contact, the horrifying uncertainty of if the other was okay a constant, niggling wraith, but since he’d first found her in Wakanda, and they’d reached an understanding, a lot of time was spent talking and staring. But this was different, his gaze focused just above her forehead, eyelids partially descended, and his lips congregating in a contemplative pout slanting to the right. Wanda stirs her tea, following the eddy of chai as it whirls into oblivion, and then glances up at him, finding his face unchanged. “Vizh?”

The sound of his name breaks his trance, a modest shake of his head reassigning his attention to her face, lips knocked into an intoxicating and innocent smirk, the same one he’s been wearing since she laced her fingers through his as they searched for a place to eat, his disguise providing a unique yet utterly ordinary experience of walking down the street. “Wanda.” The last syllable of her name ends with his mouth retaining the touch of his teeth together while his lips exaggerate the da into a toothy grin. 

“What are you thinking about?”

“Oh,” the question seems to fluster him, a self-conscious fidget in his fingers tapping along with his explanation, “I was attempting to determine the most accurate classification of the pigmentation of your hair.”

Now that she’s no longer stationed in Wakanda (diplomacy for political fugitives only lasting for so long), there are set requirements established by Nat and Steve for remaining undetectable. It was when Vision arrived late last night for their current rendezvous that he encountered her newest disguise. The surprise on his face was satisfying, but far more enjoyable was the way he ran his fingers curiously through her hair, watching the orangish strands stream over his crimson flesh and stated a simple, “Fascinating.”

“Any conclusions?”

His eyes narrow again, arms crossing as he leans back in the chair to openly study her, an irresistible playfulness in the cock of his head that only recently developed once he realized its effect on her. “It is not tangerine, nor is it apricot.” Slowly he bends his head to the other side. “It is far too light for persimmon or pumpkin.”

“Do I have to be food?”

Vision shrugs and her lips follow the rise of his shoulders. “I believed food would be easier to comprehend than if I described your hair as a touch lighter than Koltun’s classification of phosphorus.”

An easy laugh, something she never thought would be possible while bound in the Raft, meets his purposefully abstruse explanation. “Done being a smart ass, Vizh?”

“For now.” This grin, this effervescence in her chest, this effortless back and forth took time and effort to reestablish, something Wanda refuses to take for granted. So she always tries to remember every second with him for when he leaves again, eyes trailing over his face and down his arms, crossing his chest and easing back to the lopsided, barely discernible arc of his lips in an attempt to chisel the image into her mind. “I believe it might be closest to a carrot.”

Wanda quirks an eyebrow at the final decision, assuming phosphorus would have been the worst option. “A carrot?”

“Yes,” the word resonates from his chest with a deep satisfaction, the same tone he uses when completing a difficult puzzle or finally beating her in a game of luck. Then his body grows rigid, mind racing, and an excited, boyish grin crawls across his face in time with his eyes widening in elation. “My Carrot Top.”

“No.”

 

Years down the line, even when her hair has gone back to brunette, and their lives are settled (Thanos nothing more than a nightmare and a passing grimace) sometimes, when Vision’s feeling particularly nostalgic, he’ll come up behind her, arms tangling around her waist as he pulls her close and whispers, “This man loves you, Carrot Top.”


	7. Dangerous Instructions

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Vision discovers the importance of what he wears.

“Nice apron, man,”

Vision follows Sam’s comment down, taking in the brand new apron looped around his neck and tied around his waist. It had been left in a blue and white glittery gift bag at his door, no indication of who gifted it to him other than a typed note that said  _Please wear me!_  So he slid on the apron, tying it securely in place and began mixing together the pancakes for breakfast. “Thank you.”

The man typically leaves after the morning greeting, but instead hovers a bit longer, one eyebrow raised that, coupled with the impish smile, puts Vision on edge. “You better be careful, wearing something like that won’t go unnoticed.”

“I, um, thank you for the warning.” Sam laughs as he takes his plate of pancakes, but Vision does his best to shake it off, returning to the task at hand. Which is simple until he turns to hand a plate to Natasha, concern blossoming in his chest at the way her head cocks to the side to read his apron. Slowly she puts the plate down and approaches him, an uncanny and recognizable swing to her hips that he’s seen her use on unsuspecting marks. “Ms. Romanov, is there anything I can get you.”

She stops a few inches from him, far closer than she’s ever been to him, outside of training, “Just warning you that that apron is going to be dangerous for you.” To his surprise and discomfort, she raises on her toes, one hand braced on his shoulder and kisses his cheek. “Thanks for breakfast, cook.”

Vision finds himself off-balance, not physically, but mentally, the actions of his teammates so far a speeding asteroid that has knocked him from his central axis. It only gets worse when Clint and Rhodes come in, the two men sharing an alarmingly mischievous stare before bypassing the plates Vision had preemptively filled. “Clint, Rhodes, good morning.”

“Morning,” Rhodes sends him a megawatt smile as he leans his back against the counter, but what Vision focuses on more is the way Clint sidles up next to him.

The archer points at the apron, “This an invitation?”

Vision looks down at the man’s finger, re-reading his apron, and suddenly both the problem and the solution is clear. “Oh, please excuse me.” A quick phase allows him to escape the suggestive wink of Clint’s eye, his hand not bothering to open the drawer, instead phasing inside to pull out a sticky note and marker. Vision quickly writes on the note and then adheres it to the top of his apron before turning back. “Does this clarify it?”

Both men give him a knowing nod before grabbing their plates, “Crystal clear.”

When Steve arrives he only glances at the apron, frowning slightly in confusion but then shrugging it away. It’s when Wanda arrives that Vision finds himself fidgeting, fingers incapable of settling on one task, instead being enticed by every possible object in the kitchen. “Morning, Vizh.”

He turns around slowly, attempting a confident, nonchalant smile though he is well aware his effort is weak. “Good morning, Wanda.”

A cluster of wrinkles form along her forehead when she reads his apron, evening out with a charming laugh as she steps closer, hand outlining the note. “I see you got my gift.”

“A dangerous one that needed amending.”

Another chuckle falls from her lips, a tantalizing sound that he finds himself leaning towards. It seems she’s taken heed of both instructions on the apron  _Only Wanda can….Kiss the Cook!_ , wrapping an arm around his neck and pulling him in for a short, gleeful kiss.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hope you enjoyed!


	8. Restless

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Vision tries to help Wanda fall asleep.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Fic prompt from evermorewonderss:Wanda has trouble falling asleep/staying asleep and Vision tries to help her. This is completely coming from the fact that I’ve been having problems sleeping lately and usually turn to scarlet vision stories when that happens

Insomnia is the type of friend that arrives uninvited with impeccable timing to descend when mental fortitude is at its weakest. It also has the uncanny ability to make itself comfortable, sprawling along the mattress, its ghastly arms stretched out in such an expansive way Wanda cannot escape curling into its embrace. Despite the toxic, one-sided relationship, it is also the friend that perhaps knows her the best. Sure she shares the intimate fears and shrouded thoughts with some others, Pietro had always been her source until, well, he decided to be a hero, and now she has her husband, his strong arms and gentle, spinning eyes a comfort, but she’s never as open with them as she is in the dark of night, the drone of the television muffled as her thoughts careen around the hypotheticals of life. Tonight is one of the worst in a long time, her eyes wide and burning from the oppressively stale air.

It has been six months since Thanos, since losing so many teammates, since losing Vision, and since discovering in herself an ability to alter reality, set things right. Which is why she feels unfounded in her agony, most of the losses from the battle no more, life set back to rightness (though the scars remain), yet still the specter of the what if, of the what was, will not leave her alone. Right now is particularly bad, not because the memories are stronger or the traces left from briefly being a widow are more biting, it’s because, for the first time since everything, he’s not beside her, arms protectively wound around her waist, refusing to let go. When she is reminded that she isn’t alone in her fears, can feel his own restlessness at coping with all the psychological and physical effects of the cosmic war, sleep comes easier, the waft of vibranium and the reassuring brush of his breath along her cheek soothing her into a restful slumber.

Wanda rolls over with a grunt, pulling the spare pillow to her face in hopes the frigid touch of the unused threads can chase away her thoughts. It doesn’t work, just as it didn’t work the ten times she’s done it already tonight. The mission has been going for four days, not a single one of those has she slept, eyes growing heavier every day, weighing her face down which causes her lips to respond, a perennial arc of displeasure on display (something both Carol and Strange have pointed out numerous times, which only deepens the frown). Sleep hasn’t been this difficult since losing Pietro, before Vision offered his mind to aid her, how fitting that Vision is now the reason she can’t sleep. It’s not, she has reasoned night after night, so much his physical absence as it is the reminder of how it wasn’t when they were on a mission when their lives fell into nightmares, it wasn’t during training, or anything Avenger related. They were on a date, holding hands, he’d just told her a painfully corny joke that curled his mouth up into an adorably proud smile and then it all shattered, the pieces still scattered, not fully put back together even now. The knowledge had always been there, since she was ten, but it was reiterated tenfold that day, no part of life is immune from incursion. Briefly she wonders if it she’d be in the same quandary if their roles were reversed, if she was at the compound and he on the mission, but though her brain says  _maybe_  her heart still screams, shriveling at the notion.

A frustrated groan precedes the swing of her body, an exaggerated movement that ends with her bare feet on the carpet, toes curling into the rough fibers of the seedy hotel floor, and then Wanda stands, arms opening to the side as she stretches all the way up onto the tips of her toes. She paces the room four times, legs impatient and breath annoyed as she attempts to expel the extra energy from the tumbling blackhole of other realities. It’s on the fifth lap (not truly a lap, more of a horseshoe shaped circuit) that she decides to do what she’s put off the other nights, for reasons that seemed logical before but right now are idiotic. If she can’t sleep because her husband is back at the compound, then why not bring him along, at least in some sense. It’s reasoning not even he could find fault with, she thinks. Her decision made, Wanda journeys back to the bed, lowering herself onto the edge as she rummages through the nightstand, fingers unplugging her phone to give her free reign of movement, and then she lays down, a commanding “Call Vision” leads to his still face popping up and the steady four beat rhythm of the transmission tone. The moment the picture morphs into an actual moving face, one marred by worry, eyes squinted and mouth pursed, she smiles. “Hey Maximoff.”

“Wanda,” his voice is conflicted, half her name warm and loving and the other half reflecting concern at the odd hour of the call. “Is everything okay?”

She’d estimate perhaps a third of her worries are sloughed away by seeing his face and allowing the precise, quiet flow of his voice to wash over her. “Yeah,” one word and the wrinkles near the Mindstone ease back into a serene landscape of crimson, textured skin. “Just can’t sleep.”

“Ah,” the lack of surprise is expected, as is the subtle, cheeky shift of his mouth that is already spurring a roll of her eyes, “I am having the same issue.”

It’s at least the hundredth time he’s said it, the words no longer funny in their  unexpectedness, and yet she still feeds the behavior, a breathy chuckle joining the shake of her head because she treasures the carefree satisfaction that erupts in the wild twist of his irises. “You’re not funny.”

The phone is held a bit too close to his face for her to actually see the shrug, but she knows it exists, can parse it out from the practiced nonchalance of his mouth and the slight tilt of his head. “The available data suggests otherwise.” This too is the same argument, the intonation perfected, such an integral aspect to their conversations that it encases her in joy. “Have you slept at all during the mission?” A small, reserved shake of her head kickstarts his features, morphing them into the serious lines of contemplation that develop anytime he encounters a problem, lips set into a subtle scowl that makes it known he will, no matter how long it takes, solve the enigma of what lays before him. “Have you tried tea or warm milk?”

Wanda weakly tries to stop the grin from appearing on her face, the litany of remedies is one she has memorized, its creation occurring the first time he inquired (long before they would ever call themselves acquaintances, much less friends, and definitely not lovers) if he could aid her in sleeping. The clasped hands and nervous stutter of his voice no longer go along with the items, but the content is barely changed and the routine of it is medicinal, her limbs already growing slightly heavier in anticipation. “Yes, but the only tea we have is black.”

“Which is counterproductive to sleep.”

Something she knows quite well given the list taped inside the cabinet where the teas are stored, one he painstakingly crafted as a guide to responsible steeping. “You also know I’m not a milk before bed type of person.”

A nod of agreement, “Yes, but I determined to inquire in case you are truly desperate.”

“Not yet.”

Vision smirks at the admission which, counter to her hopes of calling him, only stokes the need within her to have him there next to her. “I hear the television.” The delicate way humans can imbue a sentence with different meanings and emotions was a skill he developed quite slowly, but once he grasped the use of purposeful inflection, he, unsurprisingly as he does with everything else, excelled at it. The good-natured but judgmental quality of the observation sparks an embarrassed ember underneath each cheek, her hand flicking to turn off the television. “Have you tried meditating?”

“Yes,” for about ten minutes but every time she closed her eyes, instead of finding a calm, centering blankness, she heard the sickening snap of Thanos’ hand around Vision’s body, her heart racing and stomach unsettled at the recollection of his screams and how suddenly they were silenced. “But that failed.”

The knowing downcast of his eyes confirms he understands why it failed, might even suggest he himself, though he isn’t trying to sleep, is ruminating as well. “Some research suggests verbalizing the worries interrupting your sleep can be helpful.”

“It’s the same thing we’ve talked about a million times, Vizh.” She says the words in a way to convey that this is not something she has any interest in right now.

“I know.”

There are five more checkboxes on his mental list, but Wanda decides to cut him off, at least reveal the one thing she knows would help. “I just,” the swirling of his irises stops her, mesmerized at the pure adoration and concern for her well-being clicking with each turn of the gear, “want you.”

His face softens, a requited desire evident in the slightly pained smile on his lips. “Captain Danvers is quite stringent concerning extraneous bodies on missions.”

“I know.”

The image on the phone bounces as he thinks, a marginally disorienting experience that thankfully stops as he stares hard into her eyes. “Perhaps we try something unconventional.”

Vision’s very existence is unconventional, yet it is not a word she would often use to describe his behaviors, her husband partial to routines and knowing precisely when and why things occur. “You going off list?” A nervous huff confirms his intent to shirk the norm. “What do you have in mind?”

“Do you have extra pillows or blankets?”

The question is odd, well not terribly odd given she’s in a bed, but without reaching into his mind (a feat that is difficult when they are an entire world apart) she finds herself in a state of ignorant vertigo, both thrilling and uneasy. “I have,” Wanda stands from the bed to assess everything, wandering into the tiny closet, the door broken so she has to use her powers to shove it aside, and then returning to the bed with her bounty. “Two pillows and three blankets.”

“Excellent,” the extra sleep aids fall onto the bed, forming a heap once she removes her powers and resumes sitting on the mattress, legs crossing as she stares at Vision’s face, curious at the jitteriness developing in his movements. “I have been unable to find empirical support for this supposition,” hence the jitters, “but perhaps we could, to the best of our abilities, replicate your typical sleeping environment.”

Wanda’s eyes narrow as she processes the words, gaze inching towards the mound of pillows and then back to his face, mind going through the routine they have set for bedtime with particular focus on how she slides into bed, head coming to rest on his chest, one arm thrown over his waist, and her leg snaking between his. “You want me to make a fake-Vision, don’t you?”

A self-conscious, dubious shrug confirms his thoughts. “It is possible you have become dependent upon physical contact in order to fall asleep.”

“Pillows and blankets are not quite the same.”

The hard, unmoving stare coupled with the unamused stillness of his features is his version of an eye roll. “I was also going to suggest I read to you, thus replicating another aspect.” The tight line of his mouth crawls into a wry smirk, “The only aspect I cannot help with is my fingers in your hair, but perhaps your powers will suffice.”

Now it’s her turn to roll her eyes, shaking her head at his attempt at levity, “I’ll pass on that.” Given nothing else has been successful, Wanda decides to play along, knowing that, even if it fails, at least it will keep him on the phone for longer. She arranges the pillows and blankets, deciding the pillows are needed for the “torso” of her “faux”sband and the blankets can wrap around her feet. His face hovers at the top of the pillow, held in place with a tendril of scarlet. “Vizh, I feel ridiculous.”

“You look quite comfortable.”

She almost counters back, informing him she’d be more comfortable if he was there, but that’s already known and thus unnecessary. “So what are we reading?”

The background on the phone changes, the picture frames on the walls of their room rotating out of view as he retrieves the book, the dark headboard of the bed filling the space behind him once he sits down. “End of Eternity by Isaac Asimov.”

“Vizh,” the  _zh_  is held out with a threatening waver, “I thought you agreed not to read anymore Asimov.”

Another hard stare and his voice develops a tinge of defensiveness, but not enough to overtake the amusement that exists as well, “This novel does not concern robots or artificial intelligence.”

Wanda mutters a “Fine,” before he begins, voice calm, developing a steady, conversational rhythm as he reads, filling her mind with Eternity and clean cut uniforms, assessing time (both past, present, and future) and controlling all of reality, razing civilizations with one small change. She is enthralled but that is antithetical to the purpose, her eyelids should be growing uncontrollable in their desire to close, breath evening out, and body sinking into the pillows. Instead she cannot stop staring at Vision’s face, tracking the emotions that flit through his eyes, longing to curl her powers into his thoughts, follow the pathways of information as he sorts through it, questions it, and then places it in the appropriate cubby. There is no doubt he’s also running hypotheticals, questioning the structure of this Eternity and the logic of the changes, but she can’t feel it, lacks the ability to do so, and it is distracting.

The story cuts out with a, “Wanda,” her thoughts tumbling into a muddied but centralized focused on his brilliant blue stare. “I believe this attempt can be marked as another failure.”

“Not all experiments work.” Unfortunately.

Vision’s shoulders move as he no doubt delicately inserts the bookmark, lining up the bottom edge with the word he last read. “There is only one more solution to try, but I will need to disconnect long enough to prepare it.”  

“Okay?” The image cuts out without an  _I love you_ , she hopes because he will be back momentarily, but the seconds stretch into a minute, balloon into ten minutes, fifteen, twenty, and there is nothing, her heart sinking all the way to her toes, mouth dry, desperate for water, and her mind is aflame with concern. Then there is a sound, a memory of sitting on Clint’s front porch, the warm summer sun tickling her toes as she stretches her feet out of the shade, the wind whispering its greetings, stirring the chimes above her. It is one of her favorite sounds, not because of the memory (though that helps), but because it is strikingly similar to the noise created when vibranium passes through a solid object, a pre-warning song it took her months to actually notice (her surprise at a body phasing through the wall had suppressed any noise up until then).  “Vizh!” Wanda bounds out of the bed, feet racing across the carpet until she can toss herself into his welcoming stance, drown herself in his embrace as she cinches her arms around his waist, refusing to let go. Thankfully he doesn’t try to move, simply holds her, a long, reverent kiss placed against the part of her hair.

“I-,” reluctantly she loosens her grip as he shifts his feet enough to meet her gaze, his palms cupping her cheeks and face hovering just above her own, “believe this may be the best option,” she begins to agree but her words drop away as he finishes, “for both of us.” Now that he is here, body pressed against hers, the comforting thump of his pulse guiding her own heart to match its rhythm, she doesn’t hesitate in entering his mind, notes the restlessness of his own thoughts, the disquiet at being separated, still convinced (despite the fact he verbally contradicts this) Thanos will return.

Wanda inches up onto her toes, just enough to close the distance between them, her lips meeting his with conviction, a surety that they are here, together, alive, and nothing will ever take that away again. The scrunch of his fingers along her cheeks and the deliberately slow move of his mouth to deepen the kiss is enough to fulfill his side of the promise. She pulls away, hand tracing his chest as he takes in a long breath, and smiles at him, “I love you.”

“And I love you.”

She nods towards the bed, heart beating rapidly despite the lids of her eyes sprouting weights, “Do you want,” a yawn interrupts her sentence and she can’t seem to find it in herself to finish it, fairly certain the intent is clear.

“Gladly.” A peck to her forehead is his parting as he steps around her before easing himself onto the mattress, hands meticulously placing the pillows so that he can prop himself up at a comfortable level to read. Wanda moves with a lethargic giddiness, crawling into the bed, sliding seamlessly under his right arm, cheek pressed into the silken synthetic fibers of his sweater, and she wraps herself around him, sprawling across the expanse of his body. “Goodnight, my love.”

Another yawn mangles her, “Night,” the tingle of his fingers along her scalp the final attack against the last of her insomniac defenses. Her mind calms, worries shoved aside for another time, and finally she sleeps.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Kudos and comments always appreciated.
> 
> Hope you enjoyed and have a wonderful day!


	9. The Dye Job

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> During one of their rendezvous, Vision helps Wanda maintain her disguise.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Written in response to the following ask on Tumblr: Hi I have a fic suggestion for you :) Post cw and pre iw, one of their rendezvous - Vision redyes Wanda's hair/roots ginger for her. Just some short domestic cuteness and fluff if you're up for it
> 
> Hope you enjoy!

Vision has spent the last ten minutes meticulously preparing. The bathroom is fairly small, just enough room for two people to stand, shoulders touching and only if one of them doesn’t need the sink, but it’s the only option, cross-contamination of the kitchen counters unacceptable (despite Wanda’s approval of the idea). He has read the instructions numerous times, memorized the steps and the warnings, practiced the motions suggested in several informative blogs, yet he is still nervous.

“You ready yet?”

Wanda’s voice cuts through the gentle music he has playing, voice harmonizing the saxophone. She is standing in the door, platinum blonde hair (her latest disguise) falling loosely around her shoulders, an impatient arc to her mouth, and her eyes shining with amusement. It appears she at least listened to his advice, partially, she is in a dark tank top though he had suggested a shirt that buttons, as the online community stated this would be most parsimonious to a clean process. “I believe so,” one last glance at the overly crowded bathroom vanity confirms his truthful statement. “Please,” he waves to the rickety white stool in the middle of the bathroom, “have a seat.”

The path to the stool is direct, yet she follows a more meandering journey, one that allows her to run her hand along his lower back and place a peck to his shoulder. “Thanks again for helping.”

Each time they sneak away together, he finds his smiles occurring more readily, one currently perking up his lips at the attention she gives him and the sight of her encouraging grin. “Oh, you are most welcome.” Vision finds his hands rubbing together, the step-by-step guide running through his head, “May I check your skin test?”

This had been a point of contention, one the box and all of the blogs said was necessary and Wanda said she’s never bothered with before. Her rebellion against it is still quite evident in the exaggerated eye roll, but she unfolds her arm, presenting the swatch of skin in the pocket of her elbow that is an auburn shade. Vision steps closer, visual examination confirming there is no adverse reaction, but he still reaches out and runs his fingers teasingly along her skin, grinning at the way her arm involuntarily twitches at the touch. “See,” she moves her arm, head tilted up to talk to him, “not an issue.”

“That does not mean it could never be an issue.” Another eye roll and he fails at stifling the chuckle bubbling up in his chest as he turns to the vanity, picking up a tube of chapstick and then moving to stand in front of her. “All of the blogs suggested this to be quite useful,” he feels he needs to preface the action so that he can preemptively cut off her dissent, which works, at least for her verbal dissent, the rising of her eyebrows and flicking of her eyes between his face and the tube is perfectly understandable. “It is to protect your skin.”

“Fine.”

Vision runs the chapstick along her hairline, coating her forehead, and then grabs the bottle of already mixed dye, his hands hesitating as he tips it towards her hair. “Are you certain you wish for me to do this?”

“Nat said I have to change my hair every two weeks.” She shrugs, “Plus I’m sick of being blonde.”

“Okay.” The bottle tips a bit more, the first drop of the dark solution falling onto her hair, and now that there’s one, he feels he can’t turn back. Methodically he works the dye into her strands, starting at the roots, recalling the instructions stating this area needs slightly more. It’s when he tries to comb it down into the rest of her hair that the too-loose gloves begin to roll off, and he has to stop to fix them. “These gloves,” he explains as he fixes them again, “are quite a hindrance to the process.”

Wanda’s head shifts under his hands, just enough to peer up at him, “I told you to buy latex ones,” now she winks at him, hand running up his leg, “we know neither of us are allergic to it.”

It had always confounded Vision, the way humans shy away from talking about the, from what he understood, very natural urges in their biology, yet now he thinks he understands a bit better, his own body and mind seizing whenever Wanda boldly acknowledges their relations in a non-intimate setting. Even now, when it is only the two of them, it should not be stoking a fire in his cheeks or shackling his vocal chords from responding. “I, um, yes, we have quite thoroughly tested that.” His eyes move back to her scalp, uncertain if he can remain on task with Wanda watching him so intently. “I will keep it in mind for next time.”

“Or later.”

Vision ignores the comment and shuffles around her, his silence leading her to resume her gentle humming and swaying of her right foot to the music. His hands work carefully to apply the dye to the back of her head and then to the lower sections he had not yet gotten to, until her hair is glistening with the thick dye. A nod follows his last survey of his work, happily noting there are no blonde strands hiding from him, and then he places the bottle down and grabs a shower cap. “May I?”

“Are you serious?”

They both stare at the clear cap in his hands, an item he did not think would cause a disagreement. “Everything I have read suggests it is the best solution to keep the dye from staining anything while you wait to wash it out.” His hands part, expanding the elastic bottom of the cap, “If we wish to continue to be forgettable to the owners of the rental, it is in our best interest not to permanently harm their furniture.”

Three seconds pass of an intense staredown before she sighs, a breathtakingly easy smile drawing the corners of her mouth up, “Fine, but I get to choose the movie.”

“That is amenable to me.”

Other than the crunch of plastic whenever she readjusts herself against his chest, the next 30 minutes is spent in a comfortable, companionable silence, broken only by side comments concerning the overly dramatic actions of the soap opera characters on the screen (the television options at this particular rental limited). A chicken shaped kitchen timer clucks out the end of the set time and Wanda extracts herself from his embrace, “Let’s get this stuff out.” Vision trails behind her, curious as to why she implied he should follow, the process of removing the dye relatively easy. 

The movements of her body are captivating, the lazy, relaxed sway of her hips as she avoids the stool and then the flick of her wrist that sends a tendril of scarlet to turn on the shower leave him almost breathless, his mind unable to fully comprehend how he is fortunate enough to have such moments with her. “Vizh?”

“Hmm?” Although he had been watching her, he realizes his thoughts were too far removed to allow him the ability to determine the reason for the questioning lilt of his name.

He watches as she plucks at the strap of her tank top, “I could use some help getting this off so I don’t ruin it.” The comment is laced with a heavy subtext, one that rattles his heart, kickstarting it into the irregular, rapid beating that is so common whenever she gazes at him like this, with a slight, playful tilt to her head. “Please?”

It is her _please_ that finally convinces his feet to move, hands reaching out to touch the strap, his fingers brushing her own as he assesses the issue. “I did inform you of the appropriate attire.”

“I know.” Vision steps closer, hand tracing the edge of the fabric, descending along her clavicle before dipping lower on her chest, a quick phase and the tank top is gathered in his hand, Wanda’s breath hitching at the sudden removal and he cannot stop the victorious smile forming on his face nor can he resist repeating the action with her shorts. A featherlight touch forms on his chest, her own hands following the line of vibranium under his shirt, “I could,” she lifts onto her toes to press her body more firmly against his, “use your help in there too, just to make sure I get all the dye out.”

“I suppose,” he shrugs his shoulders, sending his own molecules into a frenzy as his thermal and khakis fall away, “I could be of assistance.” Vision encases her in his arms, lips gently pressing to her mouth as he phases them through the shower door.


	10. The Dichotomy of Being

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Wanda contemplates what makes Vision human.

There are entire books detailing the philosophical complexities of life - highlighting the deep, unwavering similarities and breadth of experience that ties together the human race. All of it, though interesting, never quite stirred Wanda’s own contemplation on the issue, at least not nearly as much as the man lying beneath her, his arm snug around her waist to hold her in place as he reads to soothe her into dreams.

She was there when Ultron made the request to have a body crafted by the cradle, an impossibility, or so Helen had claimed. The process was intriguing, the explanations far too jargoned for her own limited knowledge of biomedical engineering and anatomy, but in the end was a body, and more importantly, a mind. One even she could feel, the flow of his thoughts steady, though quick, a touch erratic at first but they have calmed into an almost meditative order when he assesses new information. It is alarmingly easy for her to lose herself in his thoughts, entire lackadaisical days spent with her scarlet tendrils deep inside his synthetic brain, experiencing the world as he processes and responds to it.

This by itself is enough for her, yet she understands how others who can’t so easily delve into his mind might misperceive Vision by only focusing on one half of the dichotomy of his being.

The twist of his irises in delight when Sam reads him the puns from candy wrappers may seem too mechanic, but the reserved, breathy laugh of Vision’s response would be impossible to differentiate from anyone else’s if everyone was blindfolded. Nor would the trepidation in his voice when he asked if he could kiss her for the first time be misconstrued as anything other than from the heady mixture of affection, lust, and the timid, petrifying notion of climbing willingly onto the altar of possible rejection. He may be perceived as aloof and cold due to his logic, which is unfortunate, as his rationale is always immutably seeded in the laudable notion of protecting and nurturing all life, though sometimes he can be a bit selfish, especially if it involves stealing time to be with her. This misperception has led to jokes about elevators and toasters, comments about the unfeeling robot by news anchors and cantankerous anonymous bloggers, but there are also testimonials of the kind man who sits with anyone who needs company, the quiet words he shares in times of distress, and the empathy he shows in the face of grief even if he has never experienced loss quite yet. The team learned this early on, quickly piecing together that the tea or coffee, sometimes hot chocolate or vodka, occasionally an apple pie that mysteriously showed up when needed on particularly awful days was always from their synthetic teammate. 

It is a bit odd that he does not eat (though his reasoning is impeccable), but to watch him huff in annoyance at the betrayal of another ill-seasoned concoction or complain about the inconsistency in measurements across recipes (he still has a standing feud with what a “pinch” means), or flail in instinctual reflex at a small grease fire is no different from observing someone like Rhodes or Steve in the kitchen. Helen has even confirmed his taste buds are functional, just as every other part of his body is, including his tear ducts, an interesting scene to walk into - a half cut onion laying discarded on the table as Vision sat ramrod straight in a chair with a high powered box fan blowing directly into his eyes. Based on the data, his eyes moistened on their own, but had they just waited one more week for him to watch Up, the question of his ability to cry would have been answered in less than fifteen minutes along with the postulation of his experience of sadness.

Admittedly his skin does feel different, the textures morphing in mesmerizing patterns based on where it is on his body - from the ridges under his eyes to the smoothness of his neck, and the trenches that flank his vibranium. Yet the slow journey of her fingers up his thigh leads to the unmistakably normal tension of anticipation, his neurons responding in time with the shuttering of his mind as her hand climbs higher. It’s true she’s never kissed anyone before that leaves a linger of alloy tingling on her lips, but she readily, and quite happily, accepts the unique aftertaste over other options such as rotten breath or the acridity of smoke.

Sure, if she was pressed on it, a synthetic body powered with an infinity stone is unusual, though she’d argue no more so than a super soldier created from a serum, a man who changes into a towering green alter-ego when angry, an arachnoid teenager, or even a reality manipulating witch crafted in a lab. What can never be disputed, however, is the realness of him, particularly in this moment, her body folded around him with his heart beating rhythmically beneath her cheek, his fingers running absentmindedly up and down her bare arm, and his mind humming gently with pleasure and curiosity as he reads aloud to her. Blissful, peaceful love like this has no other explanation.

Books and philosophers can continue to debate what it means to be human, parse out the truths from the lies, Wanda doesn’t need such things. All she needs to decipher what is inexplicably human is the comfort of strong arms, the twist of cerulean irises, the breathy laugh of delight, and the undeniable caring of the man beneath her.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Been in a bit of a writing rut and am hoping this little drabble will help.
> 
> I hope you enjoyed!


End file.
